Masterpiece
by amdev
Summary: AU, oneshot. This mirrors Brittany's story from Bronze so I suggest reading that first. Santana's an artist looking for a model for her latest sculpture and finds unexpected inspiration in Brittany.


**I couldn't help it, so here is the other side of Bronze. I know whyyesitscar also wrote a fic from Santana's POV (brilliantly, I might add), but I'd already started writing this and I wanted to share it. I hope it's okay.  
**

* * *

**Masterpiece**

It always surprises me how warm you are, how soft.

I used to be like that as well, but after years of searching for a cure I have accepted that my hands will never be as soft as they used to. Working with clay takes a lot out of you and no matter how many different creams and moisturisers I try, it doesn't work. My hands are calloused, the skin rough and I'm ashamed of it when we touch, painfully aware of the contrast of my skin to yours: soft and light.

My expectations were low, the day we met. I was tired of all the interviews with pretentious models. They were trying too hard, didn't understand my work or what I had planned and I kept getting distracted by the layers of make-up painted on their faces. I didn't want to believe you'd be any different, although you already sounded different over the phone. It would just turn into another disappointment. But then you came along, gorgeous and wondering. I'd seen you pass my window earlier, clearly looking for something but a little lost. When you stopped to make sure this was the correct adress, I'd already decided that you were better than any of the other girls. You were strong and graceful. Your steps towards the house were deliberate, and I knew I couldn't let this opportunity, couldn't let _you_, get away.

I never meant to touch you, at least I don't think so, but I couldn't help it. Sometimes our fingers would brush when I handed you something to drink, or I needed to adjust your pose just a bit (always distant, respectful). I'd see, _feel_ the change in your breathing, a subtle twitch or averted look. I doubt anyone else would have noticed, you didn't even seem to be aware of it, but I've learned to look. To see beyond the surface, to strip back until all there is, is beauty. And there's no denying you are human beauty perfected.

At the beginning I made myself a promise, to push any and all personal feelings aside, and I truly bevieved I had succeeded. I was still polite and forthcoming, more than I'm used to, but those feelings from when you first walked up to my doorstep had been burried. Or so I let myself believe.

Never had I been so eager to finish my work, yet dreaded to get it started. So I stalled.

Truth is, it would have been a lot more logical to have started with your front, which would be the basis of the piece after all. With a sculpture, all sides should be interesting and draw equal attention, but many people value the front the most.

It wasn't just to put you at ease when I suggested to get started with your profile, I was protecting myself just as much as you. Maybe even more so. Handing you that robe, meant much more than a sign of comfort. I'd spent half a day finding the right one, driving the girl helping me half mad. When you took it and turned away to get changed, I had to take a few deep breaths. Had I not taken some distance at the time, I don't want to think about what might have happened.

I could have scared you away and I never would have gained your trust, which means the world to me. I couldn't let that happen, because on that first day, before I had even touched a pencil to start the preliminary work, I knew this had the potential of being extraordinary. I knew it would be good when you were walking up to my front door, but when you were looking around my studio, going over the sketches with me and now, nervously stepping into the light a week later, I know this has the potential to grow into my best work yet. A masterpiece.

I would never forgive myself if I'd let that go, so I had to be professional.

Up until today, I was. Thanks to you, it was easy to detach. The second you'd drift off, I could breathe again and work. Before the pencil made contact with the paper, I'd distract myself. Choose my equipment, properly settle in my chair, take my glasses off the top of my head and look. I'd watch you; your breathing, posture. It wasn't until after you'd close your eyes that I could come out and see you, the real you. It always surprises me that after spending a certain amount of time with people, you see past their appearance. Beauty stops startling you and if someone reminds you of it, you can look at it objectively; as if you're seeing them for the first time. Without judgement. I'm so grateful I could look at you that way when we were in my studio. If I hadn't, I'm sure I would have lost my mind.

* * *

I'd made some studies in the first two weeks. I always need some tangible proof of the idea in my head, the vision. Every Tuesday and Friday, I cleared my desk of those three black figures, the wax sticking to the worktop. These were for me.

We worked well together. Those two sessions every week, no more than a couple of hours at a time, gave me more energy and focus than I could have hoped for. You're a muse.

Today I had to break our comfortable routine, because next week I'll have to get started on the last stage before my actual work can begin. I hated telling you I had to do this, draw your front, asking you to give me even more from yourself than you already had. It didn't seem fair and when you looked like you were about to cry, helplessly searching for protection, I decided to give back. Step outside the walls that people keep reminding me of. I'm not even aware of them most of the time.

I'm surprised how easy it is for me to confide in you that Friday, I'm not usually so open to talk about myself. But I owe you at least this much and you're patient.

As soon as someone starts pushing me to talk, I withdraw behind my fences and wait the storm out. It's satisfying and disappointing at the same time that up until now, nobody's tried waiting long enough. It turns out that you don't either. Instead of trying to force me to break down walls, you're content to look for the inevitable opening and climb through it. Like it's the most natural thing to do, as if you don't even have a choice. Maybe you don't, because I don't think you know you're doing it.

Maybe it will be easier to break those walls down together when the time comes. Until then, I'm more than willing to share.

When I'm about to fall asleep that night, I feel calm and think this will work out perfectly. I haven't shared this much of myself with any other person I know. Not like this, so willingly. Most of my friends know bits and pieces, my family more because they've always been there; you're the only person not to ask. Talking, sharing stories, requires a certain vulnerability I'm reluctant to show since the accident. I'd rather stay distant so I cannot be touched.

But telling without being asked, is a relief; one I didn't know I needed. You're selfless as you listen to my stories and it tells me you might know what I'm trying to tell.

* * *

I'm so happy when you finally feel confident enough to look at me while I'm working. It's been a few weeks since our dinner and I wasn't sure you ever would. I hide behind my work to keep my emotions at bay, I can't let you know how much it affects me to know you're watching. It's getting hard to keep separating, but I try anyway.

I'm reluctant to show my work before it's finished, always have. But you're not just anyone, and I can't deny you this. To avoid seeing possible disappointment, I go outside. My hand is shaking when I take the cigarette from my lips. I quit years ago, but somehow I still have the illusion it will help calm me down. I keep seeing the concentrated look on your face from earlier and can't find the courage to go back.

When I'm starting to shiver from the cold, I collect the ends of several cigarettes that haven't been able to make my nerves disappear like their smoke. I need something warm, so I go back inside and walk into the kitchen to make some tea or coffee.

The look on your face is hard to describe when I see you going through the drawings and sketches. You're engrossed in them and I can't help but join you, point things out. I know I'm too close, but I crave the warmth of your body and when we're standing there I feel like I'm not really present. I'm floating, my mind a haze and all my senses are heightened and numb at the same time. I can feel the tingles, but they don't really register, if that makes sense. I could get used to it and stay this way forever.

You have different plans and when you step away, I feel like you've pulled the stopper from a bath and suddenly the haze is lifted and I'm surrounded by quickly cooling procelain.

* * *

In the next couple of weeks, when I'm finishing up, I notice it's easier than before to make myself just watch you for work. I try to act normal, like I did before, but we both notice it's different now. I feel like a masochist when I keep starting new details I'm sure I'll never need. I just don't want it to be over yet. But after another week of torture, I decide it's enough.

Time to say goodbye.

If it were up to me, I'd never say goodbye. I didn't even accompany my brother to the airport when he left to work in South-America for a year. I can't stand the crying going on around me and the hurried goodbyes, hugs that hurt and last too long; declarations of love that are too desperate to sound sincere. So I do the same thing I always do: make sure all is settled, shake hands and close the door before I feel my throat close up. It's for the best. Right?

* * *

I take the weekend to visit my parents for the first time in months. I know that once I get started, I won't stop working until I pass out or it's finished. They're disappointed I won't be there for Christmas or New Years, but they've known me long enough to not pester me about it. If they notice I'm not really there with my thoughts, they don't mention it but my mother does keep feeding me all my favourites and is more affectionate than usual which is saying a lot.

I wake up at six in the morning and although it's freezing and still dark I can't stay in bed any longer. I prepare some breakfast and lunch to take back to the studio. I know I have food there, but it's mostly snacks and I know it'll be a long day so I need some real food. I go back to the living room for some music records and with my arms full and a warm coat I step into the garden. The few times I step outside the path, I hear the grass rustle because of the frost. The studio is dark and cold, but after a few minutes I'm bathing in light, and the radiators are roaring to drive the cold away. I'll save the music for later.

I always love this part: building a frame, the structure of what will grow out to be a sculpture. Welding, drilling, attaching the little wooden 'butterflies' so the clay will find support on the iron bars. It's exhausting. Hard, physical work, but that's why I like it.

At the end of the morning my stomach prevents me from getting any more work done so I wrap up, wash my hands thoroughly and take a seat in the kitchen. It's too quiet and lonely so I hurriedly finish my lunch and go back to work.

By the time my parents are in church for the Christmas service with Padre Manolo, it's time to start the real work. But I need to sleep first.

Sleeping lately has been torture. For the first time in my life, it can't offer me escape. I never used to be able to remember my dreams, which bothered me when friends would laugh about the weird things their subconsious could come up with. In sleep I'd be too far gone and when I woke up I was rested. Not anymore. My sleep is constantly interrupted and even when I awake flashes of my dreams keep haunting me. Sunshine, warmth, laughter and calm shouldn't make me feel like I'm constanly reliving the same nightmare, but they do. Because they aren't mine and never will be. I don't deserve it.

* * *

As predicted I do pass out while working from time to time. It doesn't worry me, it's happened before. What does worry me is that it's getting more difficult to differentiate between my dreams and reality over time. Unless I go out for food, I don't see people. I don't even remember where my phone is since I last used it to wish some friends and family a happy New Year and I can't make myself stop, relax. I'm taken over with a stifling desperation and keep working feverishly. It's only when my mother shows up on my doorstep that I remember my birthday was last week.

I know better than to argue with her when she pushes me back inside and marches straight into the kitchen. When I try to tell her I'm busy with work right now, she won't have it and directs me to the bathroom for a shower. As the scolding water drums on my back, I feel the lack of muscles, my skin tight over bones. I have trouble opening the shampoo bottle, because I haven't washed my hair in weeks. Why bother?

It feels strange to dress in something other than my trusted overalls, my skin raw from scrubbing it furiously. I'm shocked when I see how loose everything falls around me. I curl myself up on the bed, ashamed and too drained to cry. Only when my mother threatens to come get me herself, do I get up again. When I shuffle down the hall, she walks up to me and pulls me into her. I don't know anything but her at that moment and that's exactly what I need. She's nurturing, softly singing some lullabies and just holds me. It's not the warmth I'm craving, but it'll do for now.

* * *

Work gets easier after that; my mother visits me once a week (or sends my father to check up on me if she doesn't have the time) and makes sure I eat and sleep. Some nights, we fall asleep in the same bed and I don't have to dream anymore.

I'm no longer exhausted all the time and I don't keep slipping because there are tears dripping along the grooves of my work. It's still agony, perfecting this. You. Every morning I have to pick up the courage to open my studio (or make the twenty-five steps from the sofa to my wortable). I can't get used to it that the first touch is always so cold and I can't get into it until everything is supple and warm again.

By April, I start believing I'm better now. From time to time, I'll sing along with the music again. My mother only calls to harass me about eating these days and my skin loses its gray quality in favour of a warmer shade. I still have dreams some nights, but they're not as disturbing anymore. I no longer feel like I'm lost, only the sense of longing to go home. With every day I feel like I'm getting closer.

I've done all I can. I made the gypsum casting and it's waiting for transportation.

* * *

In June I make the call to my friend, to tell him it's finished. He's surprised, both by my tone and the news. He thought I'd forgotten. Even when he tells me he'll make sure to hold an exhibition in my honour and invite only the most respected critics and enthusiasts, I don't feel any of the usual joy. I haven't seen or heard from you in six months, not that I asked you to or made any attempt to contact you myself, but the desire to see you is still there. Not as desperate as before, but it hasn't quite faded. Until I can see you again, this sculpture is all I have. (The drawings and wax models are too painful to look at. I tried in the beginning, but I had to put them away again after all of five seconds and I haven't looked at them since.) I'm not sure I can give that up yet.

I tell him I'll be there at the opening of the exhibition. I need my work and can't keep living like a hermit.

* * *

It always fascinates me, the process of casting the sculpture. I always thought of myself as somewhat of a pyromaniac, so I relish the situations I can stand close to the fire, smell it and feel the heat without being admonished for it.

Along with some of the foundry's workers I stand near the edge of the pit, filled with sand to keep the cast from bursting. When they pour the blazing yellow I feel empty, terrified and overpowered.

Two days later I come back to watch them break away the thick layer of gypsum, brittle from the heat its been subjected to. It doesn't feel right to see them use such brute force, but I accept it, knowing it needs to be done.

Back in my studio, I remove the pieces of bronze still sticking out at various places. I spend all night making sure she's smooth again.

I let my hands wander; brow, jaw, collarbone. The contrast between the material she's cast in and what she portrays is stark.

I stay there, sitting next to her and letting my hands follow her lines until she's cold and covered in straps to be lifted into the truck for transportation. When I see her again, an hour later, she's being placed onto her pedestal in a sterile exhibition room.

She's not mine anymore.

I leave without saying a word.

* * *

I sleep for fourteen hours straight when I get home. I bought some sleeping pills on the way; I can't handle dreams right now. When I wake up, I start planning. I make myself an exorbitant breakfast, throw the windows open and put on some light music. It's time to move on.

When I go through my mail (mostly nonsense or people enquiring about my new work), I also find a postcard from an old friend. He moved to France a while ago and has asked me numerous times to visit him. He tells me his wife is pregnant and they won't use their second house in the countryside this summer. What a snob. It does sound alluring when he offers me full use of it for the rest of the summer. I could use a holliday and haven't been abroad in years. Without letting myself think about it anymore, I pick up the phone to tell him I'll take it. I'm a bit thrown off when his wife answers the phone. I've never met her and it's been a while since I had to speak French. Fortunately she switches to English when I stutter a bit trying to say my name and calls her husband. I'm so relieved to hear his voice again, we used to be best friends. He knows something's going on and I don't feel weird telling him about the last year. We talk for hours and he tells me he wishes he could be there for the opening, but doesn't want to leave his wife alone. I can't help but tease him a bit with that, when did he grow up? I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time when I finally hang up the phone and turn on my laptop to buy a ticket to Nice. Hopefully I'll get the chance to brush up on my French before I get there, but I know it's unlikely. I book the ticket for the day after the opening. No room for mistakes.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, I feel light. I'm looking forward to the exhibition, eager to get it over with. I still dream of you some nights, but now it feels more like a fantasy than twisted memories. Maybe you are, who can tell? I still keep your sketches and drawings in my studio, so I can be free in my house. I haven't been in there since they moved the sculpture.

I keep checking the weather forecasts for France, so I'll know which clothes to take with me. I'm excited. I need to get away for a while.

Maybe I can convince my friend to come over for a weekend or something and we can go sailing. I miss being on a boat sometimes and the advantage of the Mediterranean Sea is that it's warm. I'll have to find my scuba certificate just in case.

I really want to go to several museums in the time I'm there. MAMAC is in Nice, but I can't miss the Centre Pompidou, and while I'm in Paris I'll have to go back to the Louvre. I don't care all that much for the Mona Lisa, but their collection of Michelangelo's slaves is impressive and I'll never forget how I spent hours sitting on the pedestal of the Nike of Samothrace. It was fascinating to see everyone rushing up the steps, faces hidden by cameras and disappearing again after taking the obligatory photos with uninspired poses. Unlike them, I was in no rush. I could always come back tomorrow (and I did). It used to be a dream of mine, to make a sculpture like that: exuding such power, victory, even when you could clearly see the crude plates of metal supporting her wings. Keeping her together.

I might look into that again when I come back. I already have various new offers for similar pieces, but I know this, a life size bronze, is a one time thing. I'll never be able to make something like this again. Not just because I couldn't possibly top the result, but the entire process cost me too much. Abstractions are safe and that's what I need right now. I'm not bitter, just realistic.

* * *

I know these openings are a big deal (at least to most people), but I still resent my mother and my friend when they show me what I should wear tonight. They can't possibly expect me to be comfortable in this. But it's just for one night and I know it'll make them happy. After scaring my mother and ignoring her, along with my other friends, for several months I can live with one night of playing dress up. Even if the dress they want me to wear is designed in such a way I feel like I'll faint before the night is over.

As expected, nothing's ready when I arrive at the gallery. I decide to help rearrange some of the other pieces, store the chairs in another room and avoid all critics. I know I'm supposed to say a few words tonight, but that's already more than I'm willing to give. I have no desire to discuss my work with them; it's not even a discussion most of the time but an interrogation.

Just a few more hours, then I'm allowed to go home. My bag is already packed and waiting, ticket and passport on the bedside table.

It's hard to avoid everyone all night, but I manage. Some of the guests are genuinely interested which is a nice change from most of the pompous 'experts' enjoying all of the champagne.

I don't know why I get nervous when the owner of the gallery tells me he'll make a short speech in a few minutes and I'm up after him. Thirty minutes later I'm trembling with nerves, but they have nothing to do with the fact that I'm supposed to face these people soon. I can't shake the feeling something's changed, but everybody's still chatting and laughing like before. I don't get the chance to ponder it any further because the owner steps up to the microphone. I listen to him with half an ear and avoid looking into the crowd. This is ridiculous anyway, I don't know (or care to know) half of these people and the ones I do care about agree with me on this. After a polite round of applause I put on a smile and throw away the note I'd been fiddling with. I know what I want to say by heart.

* * *

As soon as I see you, I realise I should have known. The tension, the change in atmosphere; I should have known you're here. I only noticed you, because you look like you're frozen and everyone around you moves to the other side of the room. They're lifting the curtain that had kept her hidden, the work I poured my heart and soul into. I don't even care. You're here.

With every step I make in your direction, I can feel it. You won't run this time. I can give you time now, we have plenty.

I know what it means that you came here tonight, I don't need words. But I do need you to be ready, so I wait. When you take a deep breath, I realise we're still surrounded by people. I don't want to share right now, so I take your hand to guide you into the other exhibition room. I can feel the storm raging inside you, your eyes are still unclear and when you walk it's not as confident as I remember. I can see the traces of dark circles under your eyes and your hand still trembles in mine. I squeeze it softly, to take you back. Make you see this is real.

The smile on my face feels so much better than the one I had to force back in the other room. This one is yours.

The tear slowly making its way down your cheek gives me proof that I was right to think you're ready. It's eloquent in a way words could not be at this moment and I want to cherish it. I don't even think about it when I lean down to kiss it, lingering for just a second. It always surprises me how warm you are, how soft.

* * *

It's all hazy until I'm standing in front of my wardrobe and I want to reach out for a shirt. I know I said I won't do anything tonight, but I can feel you staring.

This used to be so much easier, but it's been so long since another person saw me like this. Since the accident three years ago, I always make sure I wear long t-shirts unless I'm alone or with close friends. I don't mind telling the story, but _showing_ it is different. It was just a stupid accident, but it's made me self-conscious. I can't look at them when I take a shower and shiver every time I apply body lotion or suncream, no exceptions. It's not a very desirable sight and it certainly didn't help when my girlfriend broke up with me not long after I was released from hospital. I'd hoped she could see past it or remember flawless skin. She couldn't or maybe she didn't want to. That was the last time I let someone see me.

I feel inadequate.

There have been so many times I thought of this moment, hoping, but knowing it couldn't be real. When I hear your footsteps on the carpet, slowly coming closer, I know this is different. You know about the accident, my secrets and insecurities and you're still here, standing right behind me. Maybe I am ready too.

Just like that Friday night, months ago, you step inside my walls without question.

When I get to see you again, all of you, you're more open than I've ever seen you before. We take our time, going over each other's figure and committing it to memory (again in my case, with some small adjustments).

You're tentative with your touches after taking my hand and leading me across the room to the bed. Your bravery halts but you don't let go so it doesn't deter me from laying you down on the bed. Gently, carefully. I meant what I said when we walked into my room.

I'd be content to look at you for the rest of the night, laying beside you. Slowly breathing and looking, until we follow the same rhythm. When you shiver and close your eyes, I realise I've been drawing patterns in your skin, just above your hip. Even in the dim light I can see the blush spreading across your cheeks, neck, chest. Your eyes are shining when you open them and for the first time in my life I feel perfect.

It's mesmerising to not only see the way your muscles ripple, but to feel it as well. To be able to take in your smell, taste every bit of luxurious skin. To hear your voice from this close by; hushed, strained, pleading.

There's always something new. A birthmark, a stray freckle, a fading bruise. They all deserve equal attention.

The knowledge that I won't have to limit myself - tonight, tomorrow or after that - gives me that same energy and dedication as all those months ago, when I first got the chance to go over your figure. That I can hold you, kiss you and love you as well however, is unlike any feeling I've ever had. I can't get enough.

* * *

As I drift off to sleep, nuzzling your stomach and feeling like I'm at sea, floating on the tide of your breathing, I know I'll dream again tonight. It doesn't scare me in the slightest.

**Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think.**


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